Start Building Your Boats

 

We are living in a post-pandemic world. Scratch that. We are living through a pandemic, and society has become frayed, not quite feral yet, but the threads are there to be pulled and we’ll all end up in whatever boat will take us. Noah isn’t coming around to save our asses this time, so we’ll probably end up watching monkeys cage fight on what used to be a luxury yacht that has been repurposed after bloody revolution which left Proud Boys whipping in the wind like fucking scarecrows as the cyclone of earthly vengeance tears through the heartland. But we’re not quite there yet.

 

Where we are is watching our sporting idols, the best of our physical specimens, starting to act like its flotilla time, strapping their insanity to the great boat, getting in early before the credits roll on this fucked up planet.

 

Aaron Rodgers aka The Devil in my many writings is furiously building a fucking boat. All he had to do was take a shot and go play ball, but Aaron Rodgers let The Devil inside of himself convince him that he was Superman. No vaccinations for you! He went on a podcast, and with almost literally every word, he buried himself deeper and deeper in the insane asylum that is our rightwing brothers and sisters who have GONE COMPLETELY FUCKING INSANE!!

 

Somehow, Joe Rogan, middling comedian/actor/mma voice/increasingly insane has become a guru for these idiots like Rodgers. Imagine being so fucking dense that you get yourself hooked up with Joe Rogan and all that entails and then also talking about it out loud while the whole of civilization laughs and laughs and laughs as they pour gasoline into the dumpster fire that has become your life.

 

Those State Farm commercials probably aren’t gonna be there for you, buddy, as you Galaxy Brained your way into the fucking soup of insanity that is The Discourse for the white American male, convinced that you are Superman or Jesus or yes, the goddamn Devil. You have been revealed as a fucking internet shitposter essentially, and whatever fake celeb marriage you’ve got going on is just another bullshit reality show, and you might have gotten away with it if they didn’t pull back the curtains, but they did, and now you are naked and alone, a thing to be gawked at, pissed on, shit on, until you are buried in the filth of your idiocy.

 

There is no going back from this, it is a cultural break. Rodgers (The Devil was embarrassed to be associated with him and has asked me to drop all sponsorships) is now just that ghoul who got Raven’s sister hooked up on meth. He is not a glorious champion of the West, he simply has been reduced to that meth head level, skulking around the edges of society, shunned and ruined. Aaron Rodgers is not a smart man, as Forrest Gump might say, he is just a pathetic jackass who can throw a football a long way. There is no Spirit Warrior energy with this dude, just a dumb asshole who read some things on Facebook and ended up taking that literal horse shit because the world is filled with soft-brained idiots like this.

 

But Aaron Rodgers is but one man in this carnival of insane idiocy known as the NFL. He will just retire to some stupid Libertarian shack in Colorado, and I still can’t believe the Broncos didn’t trade for him. Match made in Hell. Just a dumb Gomer eating paste and playing with his toy trains or whatever the fuck this dipshit is into. And yet, there are even worse ghouls flying around this fucking league.

 

Henry Ruggs, wide receiver with all of his life in front of him, drunk drove at 156mph, which is fucking ridiculous all on its own, terrorizing the Las Vegas Strip and trying to go Back to the Future or some shit, but his car was no DeLorean and he did not go back to make sure his parents fucked so he would be alive. Instead, he smashed into some poor girl with her dog. And the worst part is that people were trying to get her and lil’ dogger free from the wreck as a small fire started, but then the small fire became a big fire and everyone just had to stand back and WATCH A WOMAN AND HER DOG GET BURNED ALIVE, all because Ruggs had to try to set the land speed record, which they do in the desert over there.

 

But that’s just what happens when you put a bunch of roided up freakshows in their killing years in fucking Las Vegas of all places. They never stop digging those goddamn desert graves because of jackasses like Ruggs, whose girlfriend was also seriously injured by the dude trying to break the fucking sound barrier.

 

Vegas is the horrific nightmare of the failed American Dream, a propped up con in the desert, sucking water from the Colorado River and Lake Mead, air conditioned hell pods all over the fucking place, designed to drag the ugly out of everyone who comes through, rifling through their bank accounts, sure, but also stripping people of whatever dignity they might have, hell on Earth.

 

There is nothing – NOTHING – that Las Vegas needs to exist. It is a trap, a con, and hey, here are 50 or 60 young men who have been bred from birth to believe that they are kings of the world and junkyard dogs at the same time. Welcome to Vegas!

 

Henry Ruggs tried to Back to the Future it, and the shitty thing is, he is not alone. He is but one idiot in a fucking harem of idiots loosed on the Las Vegas streets. Damon Arnette, Raiders cornerback, just got thrown out because he was making open DEATH THREATS on the internet, which, uh, does not tend to go well for the threatener. Naturally, he’s also the target of two lawsuits due to his own reckless speed racing which left women injured. Oh, he is also accused of SPITTING on a valet worker.

 

I mean…

 

The Raiders incredible destruction in the desert has happened even quicker than I imagined it would. I feel like I called this completely or maybe I wrote it into reality. I don’t even fucking know. The young dudes think they are in a Fast & Furious movie and that Vin Diesel will make everything okay, but this shit is ugly in real life and these idiots have no idea how to live in society because they are all fucked up on delusions of grandeur, raised to fight and fuck and kill and hopefully your brain doesn’t get Benoit Disease.

 

All of this, of course, comes after Jon Gruden was sacked for being a, well, a huge asshole, and the Raiders have no fucking idea about how to do this thing. It isn’t going to work. They need to get the fuck out of Vegas NOW and land somewhere that won’t get everyone all feral, building those fucking boats to watch the monkeys cage fighting. Fuck it, just abolish the Raiders. They are a historical necessity, but as the American Dream burns and collapses all around us, there is no place for these vile fucks who have destroyed whatever goodwill they had with their Oakland fans.

 

And the fucked up thing is that it’s all being run by a fucking TV dude Mike Mayock, who once put the pads on, but is best known for being Mel Kiper’s shadow on the NFL Network for draft geek shit. That’s who is running the NFL Vegas show, which is just a howling void, the ruination of humanity, just endlessly screaming for something meaningful, but there is nothing meaningful to be found in Las Vegas, which probably means that Aaron Rodgers will finish his tainted career throwing footballs in the desert, where they never stop digging those fucking holes. And all any of us can do is hope that we get on the right boat which is calm and we all have our cabins while Aaron Rodgers, Henry Ruggs and all these fuckers make a flotilla to Hell.

 

Just Another Thursday Night In Indiana

 

NY Jets (+10) at Indianapolis

 

 

This is just a dismal game between two teams caught up in various rebuilds, or whatever the fuck they do every year in Jets land to dupe their fans into believing it isn’t the same ground floor level team every fucking year. The Colts have not really been much better post Peyton Manning, but have always managed to at least put up a white milk alternative to the chocolate stylings of the rest of the AFC.

 

Indiana is really, really white is what I’m saying, and at points in their history they actually had the largest per capita Klan membership of any state. This isn’t the South, it isn’t even really the Midwest, it is just grimy dirt sucking shitheads who have plotted themselves on the soil for so long they manage to fertilize the corn and wheat fields which are only occasionally threatened by the runaway whip of an Amish cart racing hootenanny where the losers have to fuck their cousins and the winners get to do that too except they can also claim fucking privileges over the second cousins.

 

It is a horrible state, where the further South you go, you enter into some horrible vortex that doesn’t belong to anywhere geographically, but is the place that produced the howling rage of Axl Rose or methed out degenerates creating their own wrestling federation so that they can lure in unsuspecting dweebs and steal their money or female wrestlers so they can get them hooked on Fentanyl and fuck them until their skin literally oozes off and then they make that into a public free for all slop bucket where the winner dips his head into the mix, which is that oozed off skin, diarrhea and piss from assorted carnies, maybe some jacked off cum from the mutant the mayor keeps in a cage and pokes at with sticks for laughs.

 

There is nothing redemptive about Indiana, and it’s only fitting their only success football wise came from stealing a team from a soulful city like Baltimore and hooking it up with a cyborg Home Depot Manager named Peyton Manning who really likes the extra white for the paint on the picket fences which separate Indiana from reality like barbed wire flesh mutilation lines separate them from sneaking out in the night to fuck their cousins.

 

It is a miserable scene, and yet it will likely even be even more miserable for the Jets, who will fly into town and go straight to their hotel without making eye contact with whatever Jethro has the largest cellar and hope they can sneak back out of town with a win and a promise not to tell anyone what happened with those half-retarded ring rats they picked up at the local indy ‘rasslin event, especially since the one said she had to be home to study for her big math quiz in 7^th grade.

 

There are only bad things that can happen to a man in Indiana, and even worse things for women. The Jets, of course, like to think of themselves as cosmopolitan and above these fiascos, but the reality is that most of the team is made up of horny Southern men who would probably fuck some John Waters horror show in a cornfield while some truly ratchet hip hop filled the night air, leading the citizenry to go get their hangin’ ropes.

 

At some point a football team will be played between two teams going different shades of nowhere, the Jets to Step Two in their never ending Ponzi scheme of a team, and the Colts to somewhere hopefully pretty quickly before Frank Reich gets sandbanked by Carson Wentz and the Colts fall apart leading to the forced conscription of young Arch Manning, who was probably created with the mixed semen of all the Manning brothers stirred into a nice porridge for whatever Sister Manning they have strapped to a bed like thing in the basement, and hopefully they won’t have to bury the next litter in a place even the local rats won’t infest, just a ruined land of fucked up mutant bones and tiny skulls, half malformed penises dying in the cruel light of Hell.

 

That is football life in the greater AFC South really, where Tennessee looks to win a de facto division title even if Derrick Henry is hurt and Ryan Tannehill of all people has to step up as the alpha in a division littered with ruined experiments and sex criminals, the rapes of which you only see on the news, the impossibly obese flesh of the rest of the Indiana men pressed away from the cameras and headlines onto the chicken bones of whatever hollowed out methed up stripper fell off the stage and couldn’t get back up to protect herself as the frenzy began.

 

Joe Namath is sitting in an Indianapolis airport bar and slurring to the bartender that he used to fuck a black broad up in Gary, which is almost Chicago before Sam Giancana had all the black whores sent in cages to Kentucky leaving Namath holding his dick and shrugging his shoulders as he is given Giddy Bowers, the 19h daughter of Jethro Bowers, in recompense. Giddy, as the 19^th daughter, doesn’t stand to inherit much and, frankly, Jethro can’t tell which are his daughters and which are his wives, but sometimes you have to give the fancy men from out of state like Joe Namath something to go away so they can return to the Children of the Corn existence which dominates Indiana in all respects, culturally and civilly. They really don’t even have laws, the winners of court cases are decided by how many heads one of the Bird brothers can suck off a chicken before the bell rings, at which point a town orgy takes place, the people go feral and Willie Taylor, the only black guy in town is dragged behind a truck before being tied to a tall tree while the men recite the Pledge of Allegiance and the women ritually declit all the female babies because Tom Pence says sex should only be for procreation, not pleasure, before he drinks from mother’s tit and the next Supreme Court Justice is pulled from whoever won the town rape contest.

 

 

Pick: Colts

 

 

What the Hell Do We Do Now?

 

The Detroit Lions have lost in just about every way you could conceive of, and yet they still surprise with the depths of their misery, sending fans time and again to root around underneath the sink for the drain cleaner that will burn a hole in their esophagus’ and burn them from the inside out so that when they land in hell, the burns will already be there.

 

44-6 is a full-on demolition in NFL terms. Games are never this lopsided, but shit, here come the Lions, and here come the tears. There’s nothing to take away from this game that we haven’t already experienced. Unfortunately, the precious few things we thought we might be able to hold onto this season, like D’Andre Swift, have turned out to be fool’s gold for the most part, and when the best thing about your team is the tight end, it might be time to huff some ether or choose another team to twist your innards every week.

 

But it’s not that easy, much like addiction, most of us are born into it, it’s in our genes, our blood, and we don’t know how to stop without an intervention, but even then we’ll just end up tweaked and depressed, smoking one thousand cigarettes per hour as we try to convince ourselves that this sober soccer shit can meet our fix.

 

So, what the hell do we do now?

 

The Lions might very well be headed for 0-17, which… well fuck, might as well just get it out of the way. They have no quarterback, clearly, as Jared Goff has been confirmed broken, and while there is a Dan Campbell Fighting Spirit in there, it starts to get suffocated by the sheer weight of the enormous Failure that is Detroit Lions football. So… again, what the hell do we do now?

 

I suppose we just accept that this season is lost, but does it have to be lost in a way that is historically shitty? I mean, come on. We have suffered enough, but maybe this is our hell and we deserve this, and this is what we get for eternity while The Devil outsources his Pain to Packers opponents and his minions shred us in our hell cells. I don’t even know what I’m fucking babbling about.

 

But that’s all I can do, babble like an idiot and try to make sense of the senseless. It’s not enough to lose, now we get to watch Darius Slay, who escaped this hell, grab the ball and run it in for a touchdown as the angels cry mercy, but there is no one here to hear them other than Failure Demons, and we have lost in every way possible, and Darius Slay is just a goddamn Failure Demon manifested to spice up this particular soup, which tastes of bones and tears.

 

I don’t know if this season can be redeemed in any way. This is just a team stripped of talent, purpose, and anything else that makes up a good football team. Again, there is a heartbeat here, but it is weak, like the fluttering heart of a crippled obese man, trying so goddamn hard to give life, but that fat fucker is just gonna hamburger his way to hell, and fuck your heartbeat.

 

It’s depressing that we are here – again – and it’s sad to realize that this whole rebuilding thing is a fucking fairy tale, none of it real. We’ve been chasing the end of that story our entire lives, and for what? To see Andre Ware morph into Joey Harrington morphing into a dumpster on fire while a triumvirate of supernaturally talented players are hoisted on the cross with the flames burning from below, Barry Sanders feet getting burned into ashes and tears, Calvin Johnson’s wings getting sawed off by an army of devils, Matthew Stafford’s arm and heart eaten by vultures, swooping in to get that smoked BBQ.

 

So, what the hell do we do now?

 

I guess we hunker down and prepare to take whatever quarterback lands at the head of the class even if this is a down year for QB’s because of course it is. Malik Willis is a talented kid who has been ruined by the fiends at Liberty, Jerry Farwell whispering disgusting things in his ear while raiding his pockets. Matt Corral is a dude down in Mississippi who can do all the things, but he is originally a California golden boy and I remember hearing rumors when he was being recruited that he was poisonous, like playing while drunk kind of things.

 

But, I mean Kenny Stabler played drunk and he is a certified Spirit Warrior, so who knows? I am just gibbering here because I don’t know what else to do or say. If I lived one thousand lives, these Lions would haunt me in every one of them. They are a team that spans space and time, breaks down the walls between dimensions and just throws an endless party of misery and despair. You will be reincarnated as a urinal cake in the men’s room at Ford Field.

 

But we know all this. None of us are virgins to this misery. We have bathed in its horrific waters and made it a part of ourselves, and maybe that is part of the problem. Are we simply gluttons for punishment? Are we seeking something that can only be found at the end of a whip or a riding crop? Jesus, I don’t want to turn this into an S&M piece, but these are the directions cruel fate takes us as we plug our idiot brains into the Detroit Lions channel again.

 

I don’t want to watch this team lose anymore, but I can’t help myself. In that respect, like most of you, I am guilty. We enable this farce and we enable each other because… shit, I don’t know, maybe we’re all just sick? Sick in the same depraved way. We are not like the others, and we wear that as a badge of pride and honor, but should we? We’re not like the others because we willingly swim in an ocean of poop. Of course no one else is like that. No one should be.

 

0-17 is a very real prospect. I saw in 0-16 in 2008 in my first year writing about this insipid team. Maybe this is like Halley’s Comet, where I saw 0-16 come in and then years later saw 0-17 and then I die. Who knows? This is an ugly thing in an ugly time, and none of us should be involved in this. But here we are, and I don’t know what the hell we do now.